Stray beams of sunlight fall on her silken hair. Her saccharine scent permeates the air. The cherubic aroma captivates me and I’m lost in her eyes. Those big brown eyes that speak when words fail her. For a moment I forget about the picnic I had prepared thoughtfully with every miniscule detail in mind. I had chosen pineapple in the fruit salad to accent the pineapple and honey smoked ham in the sandwiches. The honey in the ham to accent the honey butter for the dinner rolls glazed with a sweet cinnamon and sugar film.

But I forgot all that while staring into her eyes. I forgot that the Lisbon lemons I used to make the lemonade, I also used in making the lemon cheesecake bars lightly sprinkled with powdered sugar. The same powdered sugar I used to coat the Buttermilk white bread with. Just enough to coat your fingertips when you took a bite.

The wind blows softly through the sunflowers and dances with her hair. Whitened dandelions float on the breeze. A butterfly lands on the daisy behind her ear. Slowly she takes my hand in hers and places it ever so gently on her breast.

I forgot that I packed fresh strawberries knowing that she would be wearing strawberry lip-gloss. I forgot that I carefully chose a yellow and white checkered blanket to match her acid yellow paisley halter dress. I forgot that the salad was mixed with Orchids and Tulips mirroring the surrounding vegetation in the park. I forgot that the buttermilk in the ranch dressing was the same I used in the bread. Staring into her eyes, I forgot all that.

We made love to the crunching of frail autumn leaves. The early signs of sepia crawling through the trees.

While I wrap the blanket around us, we watch the colors of the sun bleed into the skyline. And as it descends into its own blanket somewhere just beyond the horizon, I forgot that today was our anniversary.

Twilight fades to dusk and a cloud of darkness draws in on us, devouring the trees. Then the flowers. Then the meadow. And just as it approaches the edge of our blanket, I close my eyes – and I kiss her.

Her lips aren’t the soft strawberry. Instead they are pasty, chapped, and taste like soil. When I open my eyes, I’m staring into a freshly inhumed grave.

I spit the dirt I had mistaken for her lips all over a nameless headstone, get up off the ground and dust my pants off. I stumble to the cemetery gate and, steadying myself on a fence post, I grab a few Adderall from my pocket and swallow them dry. After staggering the last few steps to my car, I drive home.